


Practically Essential (The Cooler Than Coolant Remix)

by dorkishavenger



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-14
Updated: 2010-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:56:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorkishavenger/pseuds/dorkishavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy couldn't cope without Chapel. Or snark. But mostly Chapel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Practically Essential (The Cooler Than Coolant Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flyingcarpet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flyingcarpet/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Practical](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/718) by r_becca. 



Yawning, McCoy pressed send on his latest report for Spock, then stood up from his desk. He surveyed his domain with a satisfied grin and a quirk of an eyebrow.

This was his, dammit. He looked after people here. His staff, and his patients. Yeah, he couldn't save everyone, couldn't fix everything, but everything possible was done for them, and that was *his* responsibility.

Kirk could stroll around on the bridge all he liked, getting people into trouble and making pointy eared bastards smack him in the face. It was McCoy's job to clean up the mess. And holler at the captain now and then, naturally. It was, after all, McCoy's fault that Jim had gotten onto the Enterprise in the first place. Only fair and reasonable that he should have to help keep Jim in line.

If only Pike could get up and walk out of there.

If only Pike were his *first* failure.

He pushed down the feelings of unease with some success. He'd been a doctor for a long time, after all; though if this shit ever *stopped* affecting him, that was when he should quit doctorin'.

Where was Chapel, dammit? She was newish, but she'd rapidly become one of his most reliable staff members -- He looked at the shift roster, pinned to the wall, noting Dyson's amused snort from behind him. "Some people prefer everything on computers. I just like things I can touch," he muttered over his shoulder. Ah, well, that explained it, Chapel wasn't actually due back on shift until beta.

Well, no point delaying. He looked around irritably as he strode through sickbay, barking orders at L'Chal and Smith, and that Dyson woman. She looked too wet behind the ears to even be managing a bedpan by herself, but she just nodded at him and then went to tend to Riley.

Riley? Not *again*. He'd have to have words with him about which parts of his cultural heritage he should be proud of, and which alcohol-related parts he should be more careful with.

Though, of course, anyone who went drinking with their idiot captain deserved liver poisoning.

And why didn't Dyson at least have the temerity to look cowed, he thought to himself unreasonably as he took a padd from Smith, one of the junior nurses. He countersigned the medication request, nodded at him, and shooed him back to his patient. What the hell kind of doctors were they producing out of Starfleet Medical these days anyway? Stupid near-teenage kids who weren't even *scared* of a senior doctor. That'd been one of his best glowers, too. Bah.

The comm panel went off. He gave Eeri a genial glower as she reached for it, then he took two steps and slapped it. "Medical bay."

"McCoy -- I'm in Engineering. We've had a coolant leak. Prepare for incoming."

Kirk's voice was strained and tight, and all thoughts of amiable annoyance at the captain's drinking habits flew out of McCoy's head. "How many?"

"Seven."

"Got it."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, McCoy was proud of how his sickbay had whirred into action. As always. They were a good group, even if they weren't scared enough of him. Huh, back in his day he'd been *terrified* of his CMOs, but never mind.

He finished smoothing a bandage across Michalowski's shoulder. "You'll be fine, son," he murmured. "Just try not to get in the way of anything that'll melt your skin off again for at least the next day, 'kay?"

The tightness in Michalowski's open, honest little face eased as the painkiller in the salve began to take effect. "Yes sir," he said earnestly.

McCoy clapped him on the other shoulder. "Go home, and take twenty four hours off. Doctor's orders. I'll log it in the system, don't worry."

Where was Chapel? She usually did this for him, dammit. What was the code for salve again? He cursed under his breath as Michalowski got up, then hurriedly reassured the boy that he hadn't aimed that word at *him* and no, he didn't think Michalowski was actually that flexible.

"You've got good kids here," Jim murmured to him.

Ah, that's right. SAL-O22. He began entering the details, and smirked. Main crisis was over. He was ready for some needling. "Yeah, they're a good bunch. 'Kids', my ass. Most of 'em are older'n you. What the hell were you doing in Engineering, anyway?"

Jim coughed. McCoy finished inputting the last digit in Michalowski's patient ID code, hit enter, then smacked the console just to let it know who was boss. It was ridiculous, having to put everything on computers like this. He turned, waiting patiently for Jim to respond.

Jim gave him a messy, rumpled, scorched grin. Things were so much easier with Chapel, who always stayed calm and *clean*. Maybe he should see if Chapel could be captain... except then he'd end up with Jim as head nurse, and that didn't bear thinking about.

"Scotty was trying a new intermix formula," Jim said at last. "I wanted to see."

"And it blew up in your face?"

Kirk sighed. "No, it went okay? Something else blew." He flapped a hand. "I could tell you the technical details, but you'd probably just give me the whole 'I'm a doctor, Jim, not a gobbledegook specialist' speech, and while that's enormously sexy, I can't jump you in front of all these people."

Jim'd dropped his voice to some gravelly lower register for the quote. McCoy glowered at him, amused and not particularly bothering to hide it.

The glower didn't work on him any better than on his people. "You really think that was a good imitation of me?" he asked idly.

Jim gave him an old fashioned glare, and McCoy snickered. Good. At least he'd gotten that lost look off Jim's face.

He was coping. Just another day on the ship. Problems, crises, but everyone was fine, nothing he couldn't handle --

...except then all Pike's monitors went off at once, and a tall, burly guy staggered through the door holding an unconscious Michalowski.

McCoy felt that panic bubble up inside him again. The panic that said he'd never be good enough, that no matter what he did, he'd never be able to look after these people properly, but he didn't let it paralyse him. He bolted for Michalowski while Dyson headed for Pike, stamping the panic savagely back down inside himself, where it belonged.

He could do this.

Chapel came in through the door, a full hour before the shift change, and *now* he could do this. He barked orders at her while she was scrubbing up, mind a whir of motion, doing what he did best. Pulling everything together from all the cues and clues from his medical bay, his staff, his patients, nudging here, taking over there, getting things *done*.

"Looks acidic," Jim breathed at him as he gingerly lifted the bandage off Michalowski's arm. Poor kid was unconscious, which was a relief. McCoy was vaguely aware of Chapel in the background, helping Dyson with Pike.

"Thank you, Doctor Kirk," McCoy said irritably as he dropped the bandage into a hazardous waste bin, but yeah, he was *right*. The skin had bubbles and burns in it, and it looked worse than before. There was something on the bandage reacting with the last particles of the coolant, maybe? He'd washed the hell out of that wound so there wouldn't be anything much there.

Kirk frowned at him. "You know something."

"I don't think it's just coolant," McCoy said, thinking it through as he spoke. "Or if it is, there's some other element mixing in. I've heard about this before."

Crap, what was it. Christine'd been talking to him about when she'd first become head nurse, and there'd been some accident at the shuttle terminal. Some element'd contaminated the transporter system somehow. "Neutricium," he said at last.

"Neutricium?" Jim's eyes were intent on his own.

"Yeah, Chris mentioned something. Tell Scotty to take the transporters offline," McCoy rasped, feeling his heart rate rise. "I always knew those goddamn transporters'd kill me some day. But it's not gonna be today."

He outlined his memories quickly, and Jim, thankfully, picked it up with his usual genius speed and sprinted out of there. The only things Jim *didn't* understand quickly were social niceties. Not pissing off people you had to work with. Or the use of a knife and fork, for example.

McCoy thought back to what Christine's attending had done that day, and he nodded to himself. He dialled up an ampoule of tenifen and slotted it into his hypospray.

* * *

Day's end. Night staff were filing in, but he still had more reports to do. At least now he could sit down. Getting old.

"Time to eat, Doctor," came the even voice from a few feet in front of him.

Oh, Christine.

What would he ever do without her.

He gave her a tired, uneven grin.

"You've been here since Alpha shift," she told him. "Let the other kids have a chance."

McCoy yawned, putting down the padd and rubbing his eyes. Didn't help. "That obvious, huh?"

He hauled his feet off the desk, plonked them on the floor, and managed to get to his feet on the second attempt.

She was irritatingly cool, calm, and well groomed, as always. Most annoying, given that he knew his hair was a mess and he needed to shave. Then again, he usually needed to shave about five minutes after the last time he'd shaved.

* * *

He got some food -- a burger and salad, because while he might be Southern, that didn't mean he needed to be confined by the stereotypes any more than Riley needed to be confined by the Irish stereotypes. Yeah, he liked Southern food but there was more to life than just that. Then he went to the lounge, feeling vaguely sad that Christine wasn't there.

She'd been looking after him, and he kind of wanted to lean on her again. And find out more about what'd brought her to the ship. She was maybe the first non-Jim person he'd been getting close to since his marriage had died.

McCoy stretched an arm out to either side along the backs of the chairs, and grinned as Sulu said earnestly, "But really, sword fighting is something *anyone* can learn."

"Sure, lad, and I have a wee Scottish auntie who can bench press a forklift," Scotty said comfortably. McCoy resolved to have a talk with *him* about stereotypes, too.

The door opened, and McCoy looked up. Oh, good. He let his grin grow wider, and inclined his head towards the seat opposite him. She raised her eyebrows. He hurriedly got out of his chair and pulled hers out from the table for her.

She laughed as she sat down. "I didn't think you'd really do it," she murmured.

"Just because it's you, Chris," he said back, wryly, only half joking. "You helped me today when you weren't even *there*."


End file.
